Khans of Tarkir: A World in Turmoil
by Supaflywriterguy
Summary: Kensen is a Jeskai Adept who is fighting desperately to defend his monastery from the increasing Mardu raids. Mosa is a young Temur shaman who has yet to realize her own destiny. Sorin Markov, a visitor from another plane, runs into trouble he did not expect. And many more things are yet to be revealed.
1. Jeskai Under Siege

Kemsen closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. His body was balanced perfectly on one toe, which rested upon the top of a pole. Attached to this pole was a banner, and on this banner was the Dragon's Eye, the symbol of the Jeskai. The monk slowed his breathing, and his heart rate followed. His mind slowly pushed away the cloudiness. He drowned out the screams of the battle below. Drowned out the images of the corpses. The orcs, the efreet, and the humans. He drowned out the scent of blood and death, and the metallic taste in the air. And then, finally, there was calm. The world was silent. Not even his breathing was audible. Slowly, he opened his eyes. The world was different now. Everything moved much slower. Below him was a battle, he knew, but it was so slow. It resembled a game of chess. Outlining the attackers was a red aura. Outlining the defenders was a blue. The attackers, a Mardu raid force, were a combination of goblins, orcs, and a few ogres. The defenders, the monks of the Pearl Lake Fortress, were mainly human, with a few djinn and fewer efreet. All of the red moved so slowly, and most of the blue moved at a normal speed. Kemsen nodded, jumping down from the pole and landing lightly on the balls of his feet and his finger tips. He stood, and surveyed the battlefield calmly. To his right, he saw an ogre swinging his club at a line of First Belts, who had not yet mastered the Dragon's Trance technique and so moved slowly like the red outlined foes. Kemsen walked over, and hoisted the First Belts up, pulling them away from the club. The huge weapon swooshed slowly and harmlessly past, and Kemsen set the First Belts down. Then, he turned and saw an orc, swinging an axe at him. Kemsen ran forward casually, jumping onto the weapon and extending his forefinger and index finger, jabbing them into the orcs solar plexus. As if moving through water, the orc choked silently and tumbled to its knees, doubling over. Kemsen delivered a swift and efficient kick to the orcs spine, snapping it and killing the monster in an instant.

He nodded, and turned. What he saw then shocked him. Before him, a large mob of goblins was devouring two of the First Belts he had just rescued. They were eating them alive. The Adept felt his face heat up, and anger began to take him. The world quickly returned to normal speed, and Kemsen ran forward, drawing his katana in the blink of an eye. He dispatched the swarm quickly, aided by a djinn who seemed to move as quickly as a leapard. He knelt before the fallen and bleeding bodies of the First Belts. One, a young efreet Kemsen remembered sparring with, coughed up dark blood, reaching his hand out. His flames were slowly becoming less vibrant. Ignoring the searing heat, Kemsen took the young efreets hand and clutched it tight, looking the initiate in his eyes. The efreet smiled quietly, and mouthed "_Thank you._" before his body fell limp and his flames smoldered out. Kemsen's body shook with sorrow and rage, and he clutched the now cold hand of the dead efreet. An occasional orc or goblin would attack him, and he would remove their head with a swift strike before returning to mourning. He closed the eyes of the other dead First Belts and then stood, his breath shaky. There was one weakness to the Dragon's Trance technique. It required absolute stability and focus from the user. One emotional or mental slip-up and the entire technique was lost. Kemsen tried to regain his focus, but the images of the dead efreet kept returning to the forefront of his mind, so he foregoed the technique and rushed at the remaining mob of Mardu warriors, his katana a flashing extension of his fury.

The battle was won hours later, and the Mardu were driven away.

"They will return." said Ingwi, an Elder djinn, "In greater number. We must be ready. Send a messenger to Sage's Eye and tell them of our peril."

A djinn with excellent flight magic was chosen to deliver the message, and took off at once. The rest of the monks began the post-battle ritual that was custom to the Jeskai. First, the efretts burned the corpses of the Mardu, removing their taint fron the ground. Then, the monks sat in circles around the dead Jeskai, blessing their bodies before also burning them, and sending them to the world beyond. As the ritual ended, some of the First Belts were in tears. It had been the first battle for many of them, and Kemsen could see the ghosts of their fallen friends in their eyes. He sometimes forgot that the initiates below Adept were so succeptible to attack. Both physical and mental. They were shaken badly. He could sense it. Lingwi approached him as the initiates began to build a large fire to burn the shrouds of the fallen.

"What are your opinons, Adept Kemsen?" he asked. The two began walking. Kemsen sighed.

"The young ones are troubled by the loss of their friends…" he said, "and who is to blame them?" Lingwi nodded sagely, breathing deeply and quietly, taking ample time before speaking again.

"The Mardu have become aggresive," he said, "even more so than usual. I fear that Zurgo has something planned." Kemsen bit his lip at the mention of the Helmsmasher. He agreed with Lingwi. The Mardu had attacked twice in the past three days, and word came from the other Fortresses of their attacks as well. Something strange was going on, for sure, but the Jeskai were not certain what yet.

"Have we still no word from Master K'met?" the Adept asked. K'met, an ancient efreet, had gone off on a journey of elightenment, only a day before the initial Mardu raid. He had felt something amiss, and wished to meditate on it. Lingwi shook his head.

"No." he said, "The Master still has yet to send word." He stopped walking, placing a firm hand on Kemsen's shoulder. "Kemsen." he said quietly, "do not let the deaths of the First Belts rest on your hands. It was not your fault." Kemsen bowed his head.

"If I had only been smarter, and less arrogant with the power of the Dragon' Trance, I could ha-"

"Could have what?" the djinn asked, "What? Fate is what fate is. It is true, every so often we may change our destinies, but what will happen will happen. All we can do is stay strong through it all, until it is our time." Kemsen nodded once more, accepting the Master's wisdom. He looked back to the initiates. One girl was kneeling before the fire, completely sobbing. Yet she was silent.

Silent as the Dragon's Trance.


	2. Sorin Hits the Bar

The man strode through the city. It's walls were tall and made of sand bricks, and the people inside were from all five clans. This city was neutral territory. A place of piece between the Khans. The man, or more accurately, vampire, walked towards the inn, his black cloak flapping in the desert air and his blade hanging at his side. It was a different style than any of the warriors of this Plane. It was straight and steel, as opposed to curved and bronze or obsidian. More than just the vampires sword was strange. His eyes were red, and his hair white as snow. His skin was pale, and he had an air of confidence and experience that made him seem older than he appeared.

Sorin Markov, the ancient Planeswalker, walked into the tavern. He was met with many nervous glances, and the Abzan and Mardu who were at the bar immediately dropped their hands to their weapons. Sorin noted this, but was used to it. On every plane he visited, vampires were viewed with suspicion and fear. He sat down at the counter.

"I would like an ale, please." he said, "or whatever drink you serve on this Plane." The barkeep eyed him, but when the Planeswalker produced the large pouch of gold, he happily complied.

Sorin was a Planeswalker, and this meant that he could travel between Planes of Existance. This was a rare gift, and only one in millions was born with the Planeswalker Spark. Sorin was one of the first Planeswalkers, and was now nearly the oldest. He had been one of the three who had sealed the terrifying, god-like creature known as the Eldrazi away in the days of old.

Now, the vampire was enjoying an oddly sour, yet satisfying drink. He thanked the barkeep, who was too busy counting the coins he had received to notice the courtesy. Sorin now cast his gaze casually around the tavern. A dog-like humanoid, with thick black fur covering his body and a curved blade hanging at his belt, sat next to a short man wearing white plated armor. They both wore a strange symbol, that seemed to resemble almost a gem.

"Excuse me." he said to the barkeep, who grunted in response. Sorin nodded to the man and the houndfolk. "What's that symbol they wear?"

The barkeep laughed viciously, scrubbing a spot on the counter. After a moment, he realized that the vampire wasn't kidding, and he frowned. "You from up north or somethin'?" he asked, "Those two are Abzan. Desert clan. Tough ones, they are, don't piss 'em off." Sorin raised his eyes, slightly amused. He continued looking around the tavern, and saw a burly man, wearing heavy furs and with an axe slung over his shoulder. On his bicep, a claw was tattooed.

"And what about his?" Sorin asked. The barkeep shook his head.

"You're joking?" he asked, frowning deeply, "that's Jurk Stoneboned. He's one of the Temur."

"Who exactly are these Temur?" the Planeswalker asked, curious.

"Temur're savages." the barkeep said simply, " you've got to be to survive up there in the tundra." Sorin nodded.

"So… these are Clans?" he asked, "do these clans have rulers? Leaders? Or are they democratic?"

The barkeep sighed.

"You really are a clueless one. Been under a cave your whole life? You're pale enough." he said. Sorin smirked. _If only you knew, _he thought. He shrugged.

"I am curious." he said. The barkeep shook his head again.

"Well, yeah. The clans are all led by their Khans, see. Powerful people. The Temur Khan, that's Surrak Dragonclaw. They say he punched a bear. In half! Split right down the middle. And they say he's a giant." the barkeep finished cleaning the spot.

"Then there's the Mardu Khan, Zurgo Helmsmasher. An orc. Huge, and terrifying. I've heard he's killed people by growling at 'em. I don't believe it, but if I ever saw that one I'd sure wet myself." Sorin smiled, placing a few more pieces of gold onto the counter.

"Thank you. That is all I need to know." he said, before walking out of the establishment.


	3. Mosa, of the Temur

Mosa wished she could have a proud family.

She wished her father would look at her as if she was a success.

She wished her mother would not have to hide her head when she went into the trade square.

She wished her brother wasn't picked on at battleschool because she was his little sister.

But, as it was, Mosa was a failure. To her parents, to herself, to her clan. She was a short girl, to begin with. Her hair was blond, which was common and dull for the Temur. Less exciting then the flaming red of her father. Her hair hung in a pair of messy braids. Her eyes were a drab grey. Nothing special. Her form was slim, almost fragile. Her hands were to delicate for weaponwork or crafting. She was too clumsy for the less physically demanding works, such as making clothing or jewelry. She was not good with animals, and so could not be a beast tamer. Nothing seemed to work for her.

So, as Mosa approached the tent of the Elders, she was nervous. She had been thinking about her request for some time now. Since the day that Percivol had come home with a gash beneath his eye and a swollen jaw. He had been beaten up. Because of his worthless little sister. That day she had cried deeply, for hours, until her sobs became dry. She had decided, then, that there was only one way for her to make her family happy.

One way to become strong.

And so she entered the tent, interrupting a small argument between Elder Gorm, a burly human, and Franz, a lithe albino Ainok. The Ainok always seemed odd to Mosa, with their dog-like features. The Elders all stared at her, and she felt her face go hot. She should say something. Anything.

"Um…" she began, her voice shaking. The Eldest Elder, Elder Blink, whose beard was so long he wore it as a scarf, smiled at her. Elder Blink had been at Mosa's birth, and was quite fond of her, despite her distinct lack of coordination and skill.

"Yes, Mosa?" he asked warmly. She felt the pressure lighten. Only slightly.

"I have a request, Elders." she said, kneeling. Elder Gorm raised an eyebrow, and Elder Kumar, an old woman, frowned deeply.

"And what request is that?" Blink said, still smiling. Mosa gathered her thoughts.

"I wish to become a Whisperer." she said quietly. A stunned silence hung in the air of the tent for several moments.

Whisperers were the shamans of the Temur. While not mythical, they were quite rare, as not many of the Temur clan were born with much magical aptitude. The Whisperers were all hand picked and trained by Arel, Khan Surrak's personal shaman. Many of the Elders had never seen anyone _request _to become a Whisperer. Only Blink appeared unfazed.

"Do you now?" he said cheerily, looking around at the solemn faces of his fellow Elders, seemingly confused by their attitudes. "And why is that?" Mosa bit her lip, causing small droplets of blood to drip from her chapped lips and onto the canvas floor beneath her.

"I.. wish to bring honor to my family. To make them proud. To protect them." she flinched, thinking once again of Percivols wounds. Blink nodded, his eyes suddenly sharp with intrigue and wisdom. He hummed quietly, then closed his eyes. Once again, tense silence reigned in the tent of the Elders, pierced only slightly by the flapping of the tundra wind on the fur entrance. To Mosa, the wait seemed like several eternities, balled into one.

"High Elder." said Kumar, her eyes narrow, "this has never before happened. How do we know the Whisperer will accept this request?"

Blink did not respond, his eyes still closed and seeming to Mosa to be in deep thought. Franz spoke up after a few quiet moments.

"High Elder, Mosa has not shown any prowess in anything. At all. The consequences of failed magic are much worse than a misplaced stitching or a broken plate."

Still, Elder Blink was silent. Mosa was shaking. Not because of the cold, the Temur were trained from birth to withstand it, and it was one of the very few things she could do, but out of anxiety and anticipation. After many long, silent moments, she finally heard a sound. Almost like slicing a stone through snow and meat.

The High Elder had fallen asleep.

"High Elder!" snapped Kumar. Blink's eyes snapped open and he looked about him.

"Huh? Wha-" he stopped, remembering. He cleared his throat slightly, and shifted his sitting position. "I apologize, Mosa…" he said, "I must have dozed off. As for your request, I will see to it that Arel is informed. That, I'm afraid, is all that I can promise you."


	4. Sorin's Clan

Sorin, now equipped with Mardu garb, approached the encampment. It had not taken him long to find it, what with the blazing bonfires and roaring monsters. The Mardu were feasting on the limbs of humanoids, as far as the vampire could tell, and all of their weapons were coated with a fresh paint of blood. One orc, much larger than any others, and even larger than some of the ogres, lifted his mighty sword and let out roar, which the rest of the clan soon joined in. The orc grinned ferociously, and while the clans attention was drawn, Sorin slipped quietly into the ranks, cheering with them.

"Brothers!" the orc bellowed, "tonight we dine on a feast of Abzan flesh!" The clan hooted and screeched in triumph.

"Soon, the rest of the desert clan will fall, along with the Frozen bears called the Temur!" the crowd roared, "the slow-witted, half-dead, fly ridden Sultai!" another roar, and then it went silent. "And, of course, those who have proved a most impressive enemy… The Jeskai monks." There were several growls, but no roars of triumph. Sorin could tell that this orc was in charge. Perhaps it was Zurgo, whom the barkeep had mentioned. The Jeskai… they were not a clan Sorin had heard of. Nor the Sultai, either. He spoke up, deciding he may as well, as it was now or later.

"Why do the Jeskai prove to be such a threat?" he called above the quiet clammer. The crowed ceased. Zurgo turned to Sorin, his eyes blazing. The Horde spread in his wake, making room for him to approach Sorin. The Planeswalker's hand fell to his swords hilt absently.

"A threat?" Zurgo repeated, his heavy breath tossing Sorin's hair. "You think I see the Jeskai as a threat? No, no." He sneered menacingly, "Not a threat to the great Mardu. Merely a minor inconvenience. That is all." Sorin did not flinch. He stared the huge orc in the eyes.

"What makes them such an inconvenience, then?" he asked. Zurgo guffawed loudly, his eyes still flaming.

"You have not been with us long, have you, creature?" the orc asked. Sorin shook his head casually. "The Jeskai, in their monasteries of old, fight us with one weapon and one weapon only. The Dragon's Trance." This made Sorin curious. He had thought the dragons of Tarkir to be extinct for some time.

"What is the Dragon's Trance?" he asked. Zurgo snarled.

"The ability to give a monk of sufficient focus the speed necessary to dispatch a large force of my soldiers with practical ease." he growled. "If the Jeskai were not cowards, they would not use such means to fight us! Even so," he turned to the horde, "we will be triumphant nonetheless!"

The goblins, orcs, ogres and humans of the clan shouted their approval, and the feast continued. Now, however, Zurgo kept an eye on Sorin. He sensed something about him. Something ancient.

"He is nearly godly." Zurgo's personal magician, Geruna, said quietly. The efreet woman sat beside him, and he stroked her flaming hair.

"He will be an excellent pawn… once we have performed our little trick." the Khan said. Geruna smiled wickedly.

"I agree wholeheartedly." she said,


	5. Setting Out

Kemsen spent the afternoon training a few Second Belts in the Turtle's Shell technique. They took to it rather quickly, specifically the young orc initiate. Kemsen nodded approvingly, and sent them back to their quarters for their meal. As he turned to leave the training square, he saw Master Lingwi. Something in the old djinns eyes made Kemsen uneasy. He made his way briskly to the Master.

"What troubles you, Master?" he asked, his face concerned. Lingwi's brow was creased deeply, and it was a long while before he replied.

"I sense a great disturbance…" he said, "the Chi of this world is becoming unstable. Something has disrupted the Balance." Kemsen, too, now frowned. The Balance, achieved long ago with the defeat of dragonkind, was the thing that kept Tarkir's wild Chi intact. The Khans of each clan held a piece of the balance, and each Khan's piece was of equal power.

"How?" the Adept asked nervously, "Who has disrupted the balance? Who has such power?" Lingwi sat down, his breathing labored.

"I have meditated long and hard, Adept." he said, "I believe that Zurgo, the Helmsmasher, has gained access to a weapon far more powerful than you or I can possibly imagine. One greater than the Dragon's Trance… Perhaps too great for the Jeskai as a whole." Kemsen was confused. What could possibly have the power to defeat all of the Jeskai? How had Zurgo obtained such a weapon?

"Master K'met has sent me a message, by way of phoenix." the Master continued. "He seeks our council, far to the north."

"But Master. That is Temur territory. The savages will-"

"Would you refuse the summons of one so revered and powerful as K'met?" the djinn asked calmly. Kemsen shook his head. "I thought not. Now. Pack your things."

"We leave so soon? Should we not put up a defensive plan in case the Mardu return?"

"I have no doubt the Mardu _will _return, Adept…" Lingwi said, "But I'm afraid that if our monastery is destined to fall… Than fall it shall."

Kemsen nodded, troubled by these recent events. He packed light, as all Jeskai do, bringing only his Life Scroll and his katana. The Life Scroll was the only material possesion the Jeskai placed value in. On this scroll was written the day and time that they would die. The greatest Fateseers of the Jeskai Way wrote these at the birth of each initiate, and they were not allowed to read them, or else they would die an early and unexpected death. Kemsen did not know their purpose, but he had noticed that none of the Master's carried their Life Scrolls with them. Perhaps the knowledge of the life of one so powerful was far too precious to be carried about.

The two of them left before nightfall, and as Kemsen descended the Thousand Steps, he realized how long it had been since he had seen the outside world. Since he was a child, since Lingwi had rescued him from the fires of a Mardu building, he had lived at the monastery. He had not left. And he had always feared what he might find. The mystery was daunting to him. But, with a trusted companion, nearly a father figure, beside him and the discipline of his training, Kemsen felt as if he were ready for anything. The Jeskai monks walked until the last light of the sun ducked beneath the horizon, and then made camp. Each took to a tree and closed their eyes, breathing deeply until they achieved the Trance of Restoration. They held this trance for five hours, until the sun began to lightly poke out once again, and felt completely refreshed as they continued what Kemsen could sense would be a long and eventful journey.


	6. Sorin In Chains

Sorin was in trouble.

The Mardu had been sparring with one another, preparing for their next raid. Sparring seemed to be a favorite past time of this clan, and more often than not it became honest battle, and blood was always shed. Sorin was surprised that Zurgo managed to keep the bloodthirsty rabble of his clan together. He must have been very well respected.

The Khan, who had taken great interest in the vampire, had asked him to spar. Sorin had agreed. He had let his arrogance get the best of him.

Sorin was now on his knees, a large gash in his side, with black blood slowly seeping out. The midnight ichor pooled beneath him, and only Zurgo's savage glare kept the goblins from consuming Sorin where he knelt.

"Listen here, New Blood." the great orc rumbled, "I see the arrogance in your eyes. You believed me to be inferior. How wrong you were." The Khan kicked Sorin in the side, sending him sprawling to the blood soaked dirt.

"Understand one thing, and understand well. While you are here, you follow _my _rule." the orc said angrily. Sorin spat blood up, and his vision began to cloud. He had spent centuries perfecting the art of swordplay. Centuries. He had learned every maneuver, faced every opponent. And this orc, who could not have spent more than a decade of training, had bested him. He mustered his strength, and felt the Blind Eternities calling to him. He answered, letting them pull him away from this Plane. To recover on a safer plane. Perhaps to a Selesnya healer on Ravnica or his family on Innistrad. He waited for the jump to begin, his wound paining him. And he waited. But the leap never came. He heard hideous, horrible laugher, and he opened his eyes. Zurgo was guffawing loudly, and was joined by his clan. Sorin looked around him. Around his ankles and wrists were chains made of red mana, the base magic essence of the Multiverse. He was held to his Plane. He whipped his gaze around, searching for the caster of this binding spell. He found her quickly. She was the only other vampire he had seen on this plane. She smirked at him, a mirthful glint in her violet eyes.

"There is no escape, vampire." Zurgo said, "Geruna knows of your kind. The Planeswalkers she calls them. You see, she is a Planeswalker herself. A valuable asset. Soon, however, I will have two Walkers under my control. This will make me the most powerful Khan in existance!"

Sorin spat on the earth at Zurgo's feet.

"What makes you think I will obey you?" he asked, "I do not fear your mortal weapons. The best you can hope to do is injure me. Nothing you on this Plane possess can kill me." Zurgo sneered.

"No, no. Why would I want to kill you? I just told you, you are very valuable." he let out another bark of laughter, "No. You see, you have white and black mana in your blood. I can sense it. Geruna and I also possess this. But there is a part of you that you are repressing. It is in your nature, yet you hold it at bay for fear of the _power _it will give you. You know of what I speak." Sorin's breath caught in his throat.

"Red mana has always been part of the vampires. Always. Since their beginning, it is black and red mana that has fuelled the cunning and bloodlust of your race. You seek to repress your savage nature with the cleansing of white mana, but it will do you no good, Walker. Geruna and I will break you. And then, your true power will emerge, and you will be eager to share it with me!"

The Mardu broke into shouts, and Zurgo raised his sword at the praise. Geruna grinned at her captive.

The Mardu left their campgrounds that night, for they were a nomadic people. They began to move farther into the desert, in pursuit of the Abzan. They travelled by night, as all but the humans were nocturnal creatures and they could catch the Abzan by surprise in the darkness. Sorin was chained to the back of an ogre, and his ride was far from comfortable. His strength drained from his battle and his attempted jump, his fell asleep.

The vampire awoke to the sounds of battle. Still chained to the back of the ogre, he watched frustratedly as his makeshift mount plowed through the waves of Abzan warriors. He was even more frustrated when the monster was taken down by Ainok archers, and it fell on its front, leaving Sorin vulnerable to anyone wishing to gut him. One goblin scampered over, and took a large bite out of Sorin's ear, removing half of it. He grimaced, and his eyes flashed red. His combat magic was all red, as he relied mostly on his sword for battle. The goblin was sent flying back from a blast of flame, and Sorin felt something he had not felt in centuries.

The Bloodlust.

He pushed the lust back, shaking his head clear. He could not let it consume him. He could not let Zurgo use his strength as a piece in his morbid chess game. An orc bearing the crest of Abzan ran towards Sorin, and eyed him strangely. Sorin prepared himself to use more red magic. However, the warrior simply knelt, and unchained him. He nodded, and left before Sorin could thank him. The warrior didn't get far before Zurgo burst from the fray, and removed the man's head. Sorin felt magic chains detain him again, and he cursed as he heard Geruna creep up behind him. She placed a cold hand on his neck.

"The kindness of these cattle is precious, is it not?" she purred, "My hunt mate?" Sorin snarled at her.

"I am no mate of any kind to you, witch." he said. She laughed quietly and slinked away, grabbing an Ainok by the neck and pulling it to her in a display of massive strength, biting into its neck and pulling out half of the arteries.

Sorin felt his anger begin to burn.


	7. Mosa's Vision

As the blood continued to pour freely from her ribs, Mosa cried out. She lay in the snow, her blood staining the white powder crimson all around her. She could barely see her own shallow, pitiful breaths on the air. The creatures shambled towards her, their eyes emotionless and their bodies tattered. Skin hung off of many of their faces, and their organs spilled about them. These undead horrors made their way to her, and dozens of rotting hands outstretched to reach for her. To devour her. She saw the pale, cloudy eyeballs and the black, gore-ridden teeth. She tried to scream. She tried to cry. She could not. She convulsed and writhed in pain as the zombies began to sink their teeth into her flesh, past her fur. One zombie chewed through her tail, and another her ear. They ate her. Killed her. And then, for a moment, it was silent. She felt something, something eerily calm, all around her. She could not tell what it was.

Then it hit her. It hit her like a rush of adrenaline. She craved flesh. She _needed _it. She scrambled to her feet, her wounds no longer slowing her down. There, on the wind. That scent. Meat. Flesh. Food.

The Temur girl than snapped her eyes open. She was breathing heavily, and she was trembling. On one side of her was Percivol, gripping her hand tightly. On her other was her mother, who was stroking her hair back and shushing her. Tears leapt to Mosa's eyes and she sank into the arms of her mother, sobs racking her body and her wails nearly deafening. Her mother nodded and held her close, and Percivol watched, unable to speak. When Mosa eventually stopped crying, she wiped the near frozen tears from her face, and Percivol wrapped her in his own blanket.

"What happened?" he asked, "There was… Light. Blue light, all around you. And green light too. Then you started shaking. Crying out. We tried to wake you, but you didn't respond. You didn't come to for nearly an hour, when that light finally disappeared." Mosa realized he too was shaking slightly. She held his hand in hers. Their mother looked around, and Mosa only then noticed the absence of her father.

"Where-?" she began.

"Father went to notify the Elders of your situation." Percivol said, "He should be back soon."

So the little family waited a while for his return. As Percivol had said, it didn't take long. Mosa's father entered the tent some five minutes later, a large hammer in his hands and his war furs donned. Mosa was puzzled, and Percivol seemed to be as well.

"Dragok…" their mother said, "Why do you dress for battle?"

"I haven't time to explain, just come quickly. Percivol, arm yourself." Dragok said quickly. Percivol immediately complied, putting on his bearskin war furs and retrieving his sword. Mosa's eyes were wide with fear, and her mother pulled her to her feet. The four of them ran hurriedly out of the tent, following Dragoks lead. Mosa looked around, trying to find the source of the commotion. She saw nothing.

She saw… Nothing.

No people. No Elders, no warriors, no beast tamers no Ainok no Loxodon. Nobody.

Then she heard it. A sick, quiet sound under the breath of the tundra wind. A shuffling, slurping sound. It was so familiar to her. So horrifyingly familiar. She knew exactly what it was.

The family followed Dragok for a while longer, and he led them to a large cave. At the mouth, a large wooden gate was being erected by a few Loxodon, and was guarded by several of the villages finest warriors. Mosa thought she saw frightened faces behind the gate. Dragok shoved her and her mother behind the gate, and readied his weapon. Percivol remained, also preparing for battle. Mosa could still hear them. Their digusting, slow gaits. What was the most frightening was the fact that she could not see the approaching horde.

Elder Blink approached her, walking faster than the girl thought he was capable of. He grabbed her by the shoulder firmly with a wrinkled hand, and looked her hard in the eyes.

"_What did you see in your Dream?!" _he asked, whispering harshly. Mosa blinked, registering the question for a moment. The Elder shook her rapidly.

"I-, uh, I saw… Creatures. Monsters. And they.. looked dead." she said hastily. Blink nodded, readjusting his beard scarf.

"You hear it as well, don't you little one?" Mosa heard a voice from behind her mutter. She spun around, and saw a woman standing there, wearing a large headdress that covered her face. "The sound of the undead." Mosa nodded, at a loss.

"Who are you?" she asked. The woman cackled quietly, and walked closer to the girl.

"I am Arel… The Whisperer." she said, "And I believe you wished to speak to me?"


End file.
